But yeah. I want them on the sidelines.
With Go Myla signs.
And snacks.
Growing up sucks.
Mom makes her infamous tsk-tsk noise. “You look exhausted.” She’s in full-blown maternal worry mode now. “Get some sleep, baby.”
Which is a super idea.
After all the excitement today at the battle lion lesson, I’m a sleepy mess. I say my goodnights and slump-walk into the kitchen. This is one of the more high-tech rooms in the house—I’m talking tons of stainless steel along with scary appliances. However, a beautiful sight awaits me there: a box of Demon Bars. And atop that container sits Cissy’s binder for tomorrow’s Scala Bleugh event.
This is part of my bestie’s brilliance, by the way. The binder is thick as a brick, but the extra charge of chocolaty goodness should keep me awake enough to read it all.
Does Cis know me or what?
Hoisting Demon Bars under one arm and the binder beneath the other, I trudge off to my bedroom. If I have to pull an all nighter to read this thing, then that’s what I will do. Based on Cissy’s call, the ghouls are definitely part of tomorrow’s event.
A memory hits me. Peli. That little orange stinker said a ghoul was critical for his horror show on Friday. There was something about a skull mark on the ghoul’s shoulder, too.
Well, Cissy’s interns are nothing if not through. If a ghoul is part of my Scala Bleugh and has a tattoo, then it will be inside this binder. And I can research the whole thing while eating Demon Bars.
Being an adult isn’t all bad. I guess.
Within minutes, I’ve snuggled under the covers and am ready to study. All my Demon Bars sit within grabbing distance. The massive binder lays balanced on my stomach. Determination courses through my veins.
A small pool of orange mist appears on my Wonder Woman comforter. Moments later, Peli appears.
“Hello, Myla.”
“Hey, Peli.” I rap on the binder with my knuckles. “Know what this is?”
Peli balances on his hind legs. “No.”
“It’s a big-ass binder made by my friend Cissy’s devoted interns.” I flip two fingers between his and my eyes. “I see what you’re up to.”
“Me?”
“You were talking about Purgatory and a certain ghoul earlier today. Now you show up on my favorite DCU comforter right at the very moment I’m about to read about ghoul action at tomorrow’s Scala Bleugh. The undeadly you’re interested in will be there, yes?”
More blinking follows. “No.”
“That’s totally a yes.” My tail slips out from under the covers. this time, the arrowhead end is balled up for a fist bump, which is exactly what we share. “Nailed it.”
“I don’t see how this Bind Her can help.”
“Binder.”
Peli inches closer. “Hmm. Is it magic?”
“Kind of. Consider it some organizational magic that’s performed with the secret power of unpaid interns. You see, I’ll read these pages and figure out who your mystery ghoul is. And once I find him or her, do you know what I will do?”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll let them roam about free to do cause a disaster on Friday.”
“How kind of you.”
“Just kidding. Once I find this ghoul—and I will find them—then I will lock up their skull-tattooed ass. In fact, I’ll zip them off to Heaven for safe keeping. I’m a supernatural being who can do stuff like that, no problem.”
“Suppose I want them back before Friday?” A sneaky look sparks in Peli’s blue eyes, but I’m on a roll. I can deal with his trickster ways later.
“Then you can absolutely have them back.”
“Good.” Peli rubs his hands together in the classic mwah-hah-hah move of all super villains.
“But first, you’ll need to share every last thing about the Primeval and your secret schemes involving Aldred.” At these words, my tail snakes out again. This time we share a high five. Sometimes I’m so brilliant, I just can’t stand it. Also, the sugar high just kicked in. So that’s a factor.
“Now, my dear Peli.” I say this slowly while rocking my own mwah-hah-hah essence. “What do you think about all that?”
In reply, Peli merely raises his little monkey arms. A wave of orange mist shoots out from his palms and slams right into my face. Magic clogs my lungs. My vision blurs. All sounds dull. Consciousness drains.
Boo.
Peli just hit me with a sleeping spell.
Sneaky monkey.
16
Lincoln
Whack!
Whack!
Whack!
Pounding echoes across my royal suite. Forcing my eyes open, I discover a major change to my circumstances. The last thing I knew, I’d been working in my library. Now I find myself tucked into my own bed. No question who did this, either.
Peli.
According to my grandfather clock, it’s now early Thursday morning. Peli must have cast more than a sleeping spell on me. If it had been only that, then I’d have woken up on the library floor, snoozing in a puddle of my own drool. Instead, the monkey magically tucked me into bed.
How do I know this? Orange pajamas. I’m wearing them. Normally, sleepwear plays no role in my nocturnal routine.
Whack!
Whack!
Whack!
Someone’s at the door. Undoubtedly, it’s Connor. My father’s the only one who slams in such a fierce rhythm.
After slipping out of bed, I stroll over to the main door and pull it open. In the hallway outside, I find Connor wearing his kingly best, which means a black tunic and silver crown. How odd. I wasn’t aware there were any formal ceremonies today. Connor never dons his full kit if he can avoid it.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Son.”
“What do you need?”
There are two types of morning poundings from my father. The first variety is where he barks out a quick order from the hallway and moves on. The second type occurs when Connor shoulders his way into my chambers in order to deliver a long speech.
Sadly, Father pushes past me.
It’s door number two today.
Speech time.
After closing the door behind us, I take my favorite spot for such occasions. Namely, I lean against a long stretch of wall that overlooks some leather chairs. Father plunks himself into the largest seat and gestures to the one across from him.
“Join me?” he asks.
“No, thank you.” Over the years, I’ve found that sitting down only increases the length of Father’s speeches.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” says Connor. “I hear you’ve been chatting up an imaginary monkey.”
As I suspected, my adventures in the Wictus Archives have been well reported. “Not at the present moment.”
Sure enough, a loop of orange mist appears by my feet. A moment later, the haze congeals into the form of Peli himself. He hops on all fours.
“Oh, I love it when I’m the center of attention!”
“What a shock,” I deadpan.
Father purses his lips. “Who were you talking to just then?”
“An invisible monkey from the Primeval.”
Father nods. “You’re under a lot of stress.”
I shrug. “Always.”
“That’s why you’re seeing things. Happens to us all. Well, not me personally, but you should be fine. Just don’t do anything in public, get more sleep, and everything will simply work itself out.”
That can’t be the end of his speech. “Any other reason you came by today?”
“As a matter of fact, I wished to discuss the Trial of Acca. That takes place tomorrow, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
“Seems there’s a demon who may come through. A tree creature.”
“Also aware.”
Father then launches into an extensive history of Acca in general, and Aldred in particular. I tune this part out and start making mental plans instead.
I’ve heard this particular speech before. Countless times.
Specifically, I focus on the best way to catch up with Nat and Baptiste. All those scars on the child’s head—combined with Aldred’s interest in punching skulls—have me concerned. Baptiste might be harboring a lasting head injury. Not to mention all the other children who may still be at risk.
Father’s words break through my thoughts, mostly because he launches the phrase that signifies his speech is almost complete. “All of this boils down to a single fact, my son.”
“Go on.”
“Aldred wants to kill this tree demon before the crowd tomorrow.” Father’s eyes crinkle as he gives me his most winning smile. “How hard can that be? It’s a damned tree, after all. We need to make him happy.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “That is a blisteringly awful idea.” I look to Peli. “Anything you’d like to add?”
“No,” says Peli. “This is all going according to my plan. I am a very happy monkey.”
As for Father, he doesn’t realize I was speaking to Peli. “There is something I’d like to add, actually. You must keep Myla back while Aldred has his moment. This is his kill.”
A jolt of defensive energy runs up my spine. I kick off the wall and stalk closer to Father. “Myla is my priority now. If she wishes to step in, she has my full support.”
“Sure, sure,” says Father quickly. “For her tests, that makes perfect sense.”
I scan Father’s formal outfit. “What are those tests?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re dressed to meet nobility the day before the Trials of Acca begin. I suspect the topic of those tests will come up, will they not?”
Father rises quickly. “Well, so long as Myla leaves the tree thing alone, that’s all I care about. I best be going.”
In other words, father is definitely meeting with the nobles to devise more of Myla’s tests for the Trials of Acca. Since most nobility know zero about battle, these tests will likely be of the annoying, non-combat variety.
Peli hops about with joy. “Oh, he’s planning tests for the Trials of Acca and not telling you. Secrets, secrets! How tricksy!”
Tilting my head, I think things through. Myla made a good point earlier. Whatever Aldred has planned, it can’t be worse than a Class A demon. Still, this is my fiancée we’re talking about here. I can’t leave anything to chance.
I’ll simply have to ask Mother. Alone. Later.
“I take it that’s all for this morning.” Crossing the room, I open the door again. “Thank you for coming by.”
“Best to you.”
Once Connor is well and gone, I close the door and round on Peli. “Hello, friend. How about you reveal a few secrets? Specifically, I’m still interested in your relationship with Aldred.”
“Funny you should ask that,” states Peli. He giggles as a fresh cloud of orange smoke fills my reception room.
Another spell.
I should have known.
17
Myla
When I wake up Thursday morning, Peli is gone while my Demon Bars remain beside my bed.
Yay.
Meanwhile, Cissy’s binder is nowhere to be found.
Not-yay.
Note to self: Don’t reveal secret plans to magical monkeys, even if they are small, orange, and harmless-looking.
Kicking off my covers, I take stock of my day.
Negative side: my Scala Bleugh starts in just a few hours. Ghouls are involved.
Positive: There’s still half a box of Demon Bars.
Hoisting the container of yum under my arm, I head to the kitchen for breakfast. There I chow down and dial Cissy. There’s a lot of ringing followed by a long beep. Time for voicemail.
Clearing my throat, I leave a message. “Hey Cis, can your interns rush me another copy of the binder? Thanks!”
Hanging up, I feel pretty good about my bad self. Cissy’s interns are the best. This isn’t the first time I’ve asked for last minute binder redelivery. I tend to leave them places, like public restrooms or the back seat of limos. Hence the Demon Bar trick.
With the binder situation in hand, I get my sweet self showered and ready to go.
Now for some Scala Bleugh.
But first, a little happy time for me.
Stepping out the back door, I approach the most beautiful car in the history of ever: Betsy, my beat-up station wagon. I slide behind the steering wheel, turn the ignition, and grin as an ear-splitting boom sounds, followed by a black cloud of odd-smelling smoke.
I pat the dashboard. “Good morning, Betsy.”
Tap, tap.
Someone’s at my driver side window. Mom. I roll the window down. It’s a process because the crank’s busted. Finally, it’s open enough that I can speak.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Going to my Scala Bleugh.”
Mom waves the smoke away from her mouth. “And you’re doing that in Betsy?”
“Yeeeeeeeah?”
Mom looks over her shoulder. “Talk to her, Xav.”
My father approaches the car window. The smoke billowing from the tailpipe gets even heavier. Dad coughs into his hand.
“Can you kill the engine for a sec?” asks Dad.
“Sure thing.” With a sigh, I turn off the ignition. This is a bummer. Who knows when or if I’ll get the engine ignited again? Betsy is a temperamental girl. Once the smoke clears, I refocus on my father. “What’s up?”
Dad sighs while shaking his head. I haven’t known my father for long—he was imprisoned in Hell for most of my life—but I still know what that particular shake-n-sigh combination means. I’m doing something Dad thinks is nutso.
“Myla, you’re now the Great Scala.”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re attending a big event this morning.”
“Yup.”
Dad gestures to Mom, who stands nearby. “And your mother is now the President of Purgatory.”
“Is everything okay with you and Mom? You’re both acting really weird.”
“You can’t drive Betsy anymore,” declares Mom. Unfortunately for me, she’s using her this is the hammer coming down tone. “There’s a limo out front.”
Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s shoulder. “We’ve also called a tow truck to take Betsy to automotive Heaven. It will be gone by the time you get back.”
My mouth falls open. I grip the steering wheel with more force. “No way. I am still a teenager. Having my own car is super critical.” I gently pet the dashboard. “I don’t want to get rid of Betsy.”
“Did you notice the back bumper?” asks Mom.
“It fell off. That’s what old cars do—drop their junk on the freeway.”
“No,” counters Dad. “One of your followers snuck back here and stole it as a holy relic. It’s now on display in the First Church of the Great Scala Mother.”
I try to process this news. Twice. Total fail.
“The first WHAT of the WHAT?” I get out of the car so quickly, I almost slam the door onto my Mom’s kneecaps. “I know that was one of the Purgatory Path things from Cissy’s survey, but they already set up a church?”
Dad shrugs. “I’ll smite it in my free time.”
“Much appreciated, but it’s still way inappropriate. Breaking into our driveway? Stealing Betsy’s bumper?”
“Does that mean we can send her to car Heaven?” asks Mom. “Betsy’s been a good friend. She deserves a rest.”
My heart cracks. All those joyful hours with Betsy can’t be finished. How many times did I laugh while the tailpipe billowed smoke in some ghoul’s face? And what about how Betsy only plays one radio station? Sure, it’s polka music, but it’s coming from my car.
I steel my shoulders. Sadness aside, my parents are right. There’s no way I can leave Betsy in the back driveway to get picked over by kooks.
“Fine.” I state. “How about we just put her in storage?”
�
�Not sure that would work,” says Dad. “Your storage building is getting pretty full. Soon it will become a target as well.”
No storage? Car Heaven? Never!
Anger charges through my nervous system. My tail arcs over my shoulder. Battle stance. “You’re right, bud,” I say to my exceptionally wise tail. “This sucks.”
My eyes flare red with demonic rage. I’m vaguely aware of my parents chatting away. The words demon tirade come up. I’m not in a place to care.
“This is so unfair,” I announce. “The quasi people hated me before. As in, the only person who would speak to me was Cissy—and let’s be honest—Cissy rescues moths, so that’s not a big vote of confidence. Then I save all of Purgatory from the King of Hell. You’d think the quasis would be like, yay! Armageddon is gone and Myla’s now a demigoddess so let’s suck up to her. But on what page of the Big Book of Ass Kissing does it say to steal the bumper off someone’s car? Or create churches in their name without permission? Or tell them to live by a Purgatory Path?”
At this point, my rage boils over. I kick something. Hard. Sadly, this something is Betsy’s driver side door, which I put my foot right though. It makes a satisfying crunch, sure. Still it’s not my best plan. Seeing the crumpled side of my favorite car snaps me out of my demonic fury and fast.
“Oh, damn.” I frown. “That won’t buff out.”
“Can we approach her now?” asks Dad.
I round on my father. “Approach me about what?”
Mom pats Dad’s forearm. “She’s good.” My mother then focuses on me. “You shouldn’t leave the limo waiting.”
“Right. My Scala Bleugh.” Taking in a deep breath, I look between my parents. “Can we put Betsy in storage or what?”
“Yes, we most certainly will,” says Mom. She’s all my mother right now, which I totally appreciate. More and more, I’m related to Camilla the president. I take my Mommy-time where I can get it.
After saying my good-byes, I step around to the mansion’s main entrance and slip into my limo. Once inside, I make a fateful decision.
Trickster (Angelbound Lincoln Book 3) Page 7
